


Trouble in My Blood

by Linden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here be a short little PWP featuring a motel room in Colorado, John asleep, and the Winchester boys awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble in My Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Trouble in My Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804686) by [Milfoil_c](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milfoil_c/pseuds/Milfoil_c)



> I don't even know where this really came from, but, well, have some frottage, folks.
> 
> Title hijacked from Darlingside's gorgeous [The God of Loss](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAtPeX6Xuxo), whose lyrics can be found [here ](https://www.musixmatch.com/lyrics/Darlingside/The-God-of-Loss).

**October 1999**

Dean got back to the motel just after midnight, with the case wrapped up neat and pretty, and his stolen Ford ditched half a mile down the road, and the bones of Josiah Bounderby, Esq. salted and burned three counties behind him. The night had been a milk run, really, no problems other than digging up six feet of grave dirt on his own and splitting open a solid oak casket with an axe, but he’d already been up for thirty-six hours before he’d ever gone out, and by now he was so weary that he could scarcely see.

He detoured through the parking lot to give Baby a pat good night anyway, because you didn’t neglect your best girl, no matter how freakin' exhausted you were.

Too tired to care that he smelled of smoke and sweat and gasoline, he ignored the shower as he shuffled into their room, just blinked blearily through the note his father had left on his pillow ( _back before 1:00, call if you’re hurt_ ) and then face-planted onto the bed beside his brother, who’d conked out with the TV on low and half a cup of cold coffee beside him, clearly trying to wait up for Dean to come home.

Rolling onto his back, breathing in the familiar scent of every cheap motel room he'd ever known between Savannah and Seattle, Dean closed his eyes, and was out like a light between one heartbeat and the next.

***

The chainsaw rumble of his father’s snoring woke him, some indeterminate time later, to a warm body pressed against his side and a firm cock against his hip, and to Sammy’s soft breath puffing hot and damp against his neck, where his little brother was sprawled half on top of him with one arm thrown across his ribs. Dean yawned, still tired to the bone, and moved a bit beneath his weight; Sammy, waking, made a soft sleepy sound in his chest and hitched a leg over both of his and rubbed against him and sighed, and the sweet-hurt twist of love and lust and guilt and wanting that tightened in Dean’s chest and gut ached like a bone-deep, heart-deep bruise.

He turned his head, just a little, just enough to tuck his nose into the messy tumble of his brother’s hair, felt Sam’s arm tighten around him in reply, felt the kid’s mouth (chapped, sweet, wicked) brush against his pulse-point, and linger.  Sam shifted again, giving a deliberate little roll of his hips, letting his leg slide higher to push warm against Dean’s groin, and this was stupid, okay; with their father asleep less than three feet away this was  _suicidal_ , but Dean pulled his little brother all the way on top of him with a soft rustle of sheets anyway, spread his legs a little to let the kid sink a knee between his thighs, Sam’s cock already hard and hot and throbbing through the soft cotton of his boxers, the rough denim of Dean's jeans.  Sammy pressed his hips forward, face tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck, and the slide of his slim body shouldn’t have been so hot and it shouldn’t have felt so good, and Dean shouldn’t have been rucking up the back of his brother’s tee to get his hands on soft bare skin, but he’d left _should_ so far behind him by now that it might as well have been seven hours back down the highway and across the state line in Nebraska.

There was grave dirt, still, beneath his nails, and the scent of gasoline on his arms and hands, and he was still in his dirty boots and tee and jeans, with his amulet pricking sharp against his breastbone.  Sammy was wearing nothing but an old tee and boxers, and he smelled sharp and clean and had skin like fucking velvet, and there was something painfully, perfectly delicious about all of that, though Dean couldn’t have said what, or why.

He arched, just a little, as Sam dug bony knees into the mattress to get enough leverage to rock against him, and the kid’s soft, stuttering _D_ - _Dean_ was nearly soundless beneath the rasp and grumble of their father’s snores. Dean tried to keep his hands still, couldn’t, mapped out the bony ridge of Sam’s shoulder blades with his palms instead, and the long line of his scarred lovely back; cupped the curve of his pretty ass and pulled him in harder, closer. Sammy’s breath went harsh and ragged just below his ear, long fingers clenching where they were bunched in the sheets, mouth open now against Dean’s throat; and the wet heat of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth was enough to have Dean’s cock pumping out a warm slick of precome in his jeans, getting him messy and wet. He let his head tip back against his pillow, teeth digging into his lower lip, and Sammy _bit_ , the little fucker, hard, at the tendon just below the bolt of his jaw, sent a wash of prickly heat flooding through him that flexed the thigh Sam was riding, pushed his hips up against his little brother’s. He felt the sharp shocks of _want_ sparking through the kid’s lean muscles, felt him losing his rhythm; tightened his hold on him, crooked his free leg around his hip.

Sam couldn’t keep entirely quiet as he came, burying his face deeper into Dean’s neck as he gave up these soft, huffing little puppy whines in time with the wet pulsing of his cock, and Dean gripped his slim hips to help him ride out the aftershocks, thumbs stroking over the narrow bones until his little brother slumped against his chest in a pile of hot skin and shivery limbs and quiet, gulping breaths. The touch of his lips against the underside of Dean’s jaw a moment later was petal-soft, reverent, _cherishing_ , and Dean felt a hot liquid tremor chase itself down its spine, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

It was easy enough, in daylight, to tell himself that this meant nothing; that they were just two guys who were horny and lonely and stuck together in a too-narrow bed; that getting off was just something Sammy needed, just something else that Dean could give him.

It was getting a shitload harder, at night, to believe it.

‘Dean,’ Sam whispered, mouthing blindly at the soft stubbled skin, and Dean should have given him a gentle shove to get him moving; he _knew_ that, should have said something teasing and tugged his hair and made this feel like nothing special at all.  He let Sam slide a hand between them to work at the buckle of his belt instead, those long fingers squeezing him through the damp denim of his jeans like a promise, and closed his eyes against the dark.

He never noticed when their father's snoring stopped.


End file.
